Never Seen That Smile Before
by CeliaEquus
Summary: Omega Sherlock was under the impression that Alpha Lestrade was infertile. So was Lestrade. When it transpires that that's not the case, Sherlock has to make a decision regarding the baby he is now carrying. John is far more helpful than Mycroft. Warnings inside. Disclaimer: I don't own 'Sherlock', nor am I making any money from this.


**Warning: discussion of abortion, (mention of) dub-con due to the nature of Omega heats, mild swearing.**

"Never Seen That Smile Before"

Greg Lestrade glanced up from his notebook, and tried not to smile – hell, not to blush – as he saw Sherlock Holmes and John Watson getting out of a taxi.

John had been settling his sister in at a rehabilitation centre up north, so Sherlock had been alone last time he had visited a crime scene. It was an illicit science facility, and the scene had reeked of pheromones stored in jars on the shelves. Sherlock had barely left the room before Greg received a text. When he finally found the detective, Sherlock yanked him into a vacant lab, closed the door, and that was when Greg realised that the detective had gone into a spontaneous heat.

Fortunately, the others were able to follow up on the notes Donovan had taken down at Greg's insistence. Because after a quick shag only a few rooms away from the crime scene, Sherlock all but dragged Greg back to Baker Street for the next few days.

In a kind of haze over the memories of two weeks ago, Greg snapped out of it when Sherlock's hand made contact with his cheek.

There was a loud silence after the echo of the slap died away. Greg noticed John's eyes widen, noticed the way the doctor looked from Sherlock to Greg and back again. He seemed to understand something. Greg envied him that knowledge.

"You _bastard_," Sherlock hissed. Greg swallowed.

"I did call the next day," he said. "In my defence."

Sherlock ignored that. "You told me you were infertile."

"Considering my Omega wife never fell pregnant during our marriage, and told me that she'd been checked out, it was presumed that, yeah, the fault was on my end," Greg said, massaging the heated skin of his cheek. He sniffed delicately; Sherlock's scent had changed. "I'm guessing that's not actually the case?"

"I should have known better," Sherlock muttered. "There's always something. Bloody Alphas. Why didn't you go to a doctor, Lestrade?"

"Because I never thought I'd be with an Omega in heat again," Greg replied through gritted teeth. "I am very sorry, Sherlock. I will provide whatever support you require."

He merely got a glare in return, and then Sherlock swept past, stalking over to the body. John moved to Greg's side, and the inspector braced himself for another hit, trying to ignore the murmurs around them.

"Relax," John said mildly. "I knew, soon as I got back. Didn't recognise your scent, of course. Sherlock had managed to clean the flat – for once – so it was quite faint. I can smell it now, though. I think I knew that he was pregnant before he did." He nodded towards Sherlock, who was more wooden in his movements than usual; none of his fluid grace.

"You're lucky to be a Beta," Greg said. "You don't have to go through all this." John flinched, and Greg immediately felt guilty. "Sorry. I didn't mean…"

"That's the big difference, though, isn't it?" John said. "We have the same rights as Alphas, same level of respect. And I don't want to have children. But in my weaker moments…" He shrugged. "Every Beta has them, I guess. Wishing for a way to justify our existence, since we can't reproduce. The point is, what're you going to do now?"

"Do…?"

"About Sherlock, and the you-know-what. That's what he calls it: 'the you-know-what'."

"Ah, well, that says it all, then," Greg said. "He doesn't want the child, so we— he won't have it. I'll be there for him, if he wants me. Until then, I won't approach him."

"At all? You know, as the father, you've got a say in the matter. Legally—"

"Legalities mean nothing." Greg scowled as Sherlock made some cutting remark to Anderson. "Not when you're Sherlock Bloody Holmes."

"Greg—"

"Listen, you're a good mate, John, but—"

"He thinks you won't want him," John said. "He doesn't say it, but I saw his face when I diagnosed his… condition. He looked terrified, and I've seen plenty of terror in my time, both as doctor and soldier. When I asked who the father was, he didn't tell me, but he said there was no chance of anything happening, regardless of his wishes. He asked me to find a reputable abortionist. We haven't heard anything from Mycroft yet, so I don't know what _he_ thinks about all this."

Greg had trouble finding the words. "I don't think that's what he meant. I mean, how could you tell whether or not he wants me to be his… Were those his actual words?"

"No, but that was the gist of it," John said. "Live with a man long enough, you get to know him. And he smelt… distressed. We have better senses than either Omegas or Alphas, you know." He tapped his nose. "We can scent emotions."

"He was distressed about the preg…" Greg trailed off, and they both remained silent as Sherlock strode up to them. He glared at the inspector, and then turned to John.

"Back to Baker Street," he said, and he turned away.

"Wait, Sherlock," Greg said. "What about… what about the, uh, the case?"

"I'll text you the details," Sherlock said over his shoulder. "Come a_long_, John."

"Sorry," John whispered. "We'll talk later, yeah?"

Greg could only nod as Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and pulled him away.

* * *

In the cab, John looked over at his flatmate.

"So," he said. Sherlock held up a hand.

"I do not wish to talk about it."

"Are you going to text—"

"When we return to Baker Street, so that I may confirm my hypothesis. Do not worry about the kitchen, John. This does not require any experiments. However, there is a piece of information in one of my books which may help. It cannot be found online."

John cleared his throat. "Right. About the… you-know-what."

"I _said_ that I don't want to discuss it!" Sherlock said forcefully, glaring at John. The doctor glared right back.

"You're being a child," he said. "And you're not giving yourself the chance to think things through, or discuss them with Lestrade."

"There is nothing to discuss," Sherlock said, gazing out of the window sulkily. "I could never raise a… a child. Everyone is perfectly aware that it would be quite impossible. I would make a terrible father."

"I don't know about—"

"You wished me to discuss it, doctor. Don't interrupt." John made the motion of zipping up his lips. Sherlock looked confused, but carried on. "I know that Lestrade wanted to be a father, and was devastated that he could never impregnate his wife. It is clear that she was lying to him, for reasons I cannot deduce without further evidence. However, I am not the right person to bring up a child, and I certainly never could with Lestrade. We would not last a day, let alone eighteen years and nine months."

"He's willing to provide any support you need. That would include financial."

"What if I don't want…" Sherlock cut himself off, shaking his head. "This is merely proof that he is, in fact, very much fertile. If he wishes to move on from his wife, he is now at liberty to do so, without the fear of tying down another Omega to a childless existence."

John drummed his fingers on the door handle, staring out the window, barely noticing the buildings flying past.

"You think," he said, "that Greg doesn't want you. Am I right?"

Sherlock snorted. John made eye contact with him, and refused to look away, even turning Sherlock's head back to face him.

"Of course n—"

"Tell me the truth!"

"I…" Sherlock shook his head again. "No, John. I cannot…"

"He could move in to Baker Street with us, and the child could be raised there. We can work it out, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson could be a babysitter if we're out on a case—"

"Oh, yes?" Sherlock said, eyes narrowing once more. "When did you dream up this pleasant little scenario of domesticity, John?"

"When I realised that you and Greg are both hurting by being apart," John snapped. "You're not my only friend, Sherlock, just as I'm not your only friend. Greg and I go out for drinks together. I supported him through the divorce, took him out to celebrate after it was finalised, and I've seen him going through the motions since then. You may not have noticed, Mr. Consulting Detective, but I saw his reaction when he scented the change. You were too angry to see that moment of happiness, before you crushed it with your usual cruelty."

They were nearly at Baker Street, and both men were scowling at one other. John threw cash at the driver when the taxi pulled to a stop, and followed Sherlock inside. He nodded to Mrs. Hudson, but ignored her questions as he pounded up the seventeen steps.

"You'll have to talk to Mycroft, you know," John said. Sherlock was about to throw himself into a chair, but checked himself at the last moment. When he was sitting down, his hand drifted towards his abdomen. He wrenched it away at the last minute, and instead grabbed his violin. "So you want me to talk to your brother instead? I hate to think of the dressing down Greg's probably getting from him right at this moment."

Sherlock nearly snapped a string, but he steadfastly kept tuning, eyes never leaving the instrument. "Why should I care?"

"Do you think Mycroft will ever have a family?"

"With his personality? Oh, for sure, John. Can't you just see it? Of course the world needs more little Mycrofts running around. No. He is a Beta, or have you forgotten?"

"What about more Sherlocks? Or more Gregs?"

"John, are you _telling_ me to have this baby?" Sherlock asked, finally looking up at him. "Are you advocating it, as my doctor?"

"Abortions aren't illegal anymore, but that doesn't mean they're something you just jump into. There are tests you have to undergo: physical, psychological, emotional. Greg will have to be there, Sherlock, it's required by law. If you're going to do this, you have to prove that there's a viable reason to terminate the pregnancy." He waved away Sherlock's interruption. "No. I know it's very likely that it would be approved; any of the examiners would only have to spend five minutes in the same room with you, and they'd sign off on it. Mycroft would approve as well; I doubt he has confidence in your ability to be a father."

Sherlock tensed. "If you think reverse psychology will work on me—"

"It's not like you not to examine every possibility," John said, perching on the opposite chair. "You shouldn't need help to do that, but it seems you're not thinking straight."

Before Sherlock could form a reply, John's mobile rang. He sighed when he noticed the number on the screen.

"I'll be back," he said, and he made his way into the kitchen, disinclined to rush for Mycroft Holmes. Out of earshot, he pressed the answer button. "Hello."

"I think we should have a discussion."

"You're as bad as your brother," John said. "We're having one now, Mycroft. No need to send the super secret spy car."

"Very well," Mycroft said. "Do you intend to talk my brother into continuing this pregnancy, or talk him out of it?"

"I'm trying to talk him into making the right decision. Only he can judge what that is, and I'm worried that he's not thinking about this logically."

"You are aware, of course, that my brother has been smitten with Detective Inspector Lestrade for some years."

John leaned against the kitchen counter, blinking rapidly. "Uh, no. Didn't have a clue. Years? Really?"

"He has been painfully transparent." Mycroft sighed the put-upon-Holmes sigh. "I suppose it takes a member of the family to see it, and it began long before you came on the scene, Dr. Watson."

"Okay, okay. So you've got my attention. What do you actually want me to do? Bearing in mind that I don't actually give a toss, not for your sake. But if there's anything I need to know, then you _will_ tell me. Now."

There was a pause. "Very well. Sherlock slapped Lestrade, did he not?"

"Yes."

"That is telling. If it were anyone else who put him in such a position – except, perhaps, yourself – my brother would not have held back. The father would have been in hospital by now, and Sherlock would never care for the child's well-being. Has he behaved any differently, physically?"

John thought back to when Sherlock sat down carefully, the way he took the stairs at a slower pace, even the way he knelt at the crime scene, instead of crouching. "He has."

"So he is taking care?"

"Yes."

"John!" Sherlock called. "While you're in there, could you make lunch?"

Mycroft chuckled. John replied, "Yes, Sherlock. Sandwiches all right?"

There was a loud sigh. "I suppose so."

"He is interested in food," Mycroft said.

"Yeah, I got that," John said waspishly, and he strode over to the fridge. "This is no guarantee that he'll change his mind about an abortion."

"You know Omega physiology, Dr. Watson. He has approximately two weeks to decide. After that, things will move quickly."

"So what are you saying? Do you have some hidden yearning to be an uncle?"

Mycroft's eye-roll was audible. "You are missing the point, doctor. While I do not believe that my brother is the best person to raise a child, someone must carry on the Holmes name—"

"It would be the Lestrade name."

"Not if Sherlock remains single."

John nearly broke the handle of the fridge door. "You don't want them together?"

"Sherlock can do—"

"If you say that Sherlock can do better than Gregory Lestrade, no amount of Secret Service personnel will keep you safe, Mycroft Holmes. We don't need any of your input. Good day." And John ended the call with a fierce tap of his finger. "What do you want on your sandwich, Sherlock?"

* * *

For one week, John observed his flatmate. Sherlock's food preferences didn't change; but he did eat more, and Mrs. Hudson was in ecstasies over it. Neither of them told her the reason for his new eating habits. The detective also slept through the nights, and there had been no experiments at Baker Street. (Yet. It was only a matter of time, John feared.)

Sherlock rarely spoke. He always deleted his internet history, to John's chagrin, and the you-know-what was hardly mentioned at all. His movements were slower, and designed to protect his abdomen. No more throwing himself around, no more gunshots, no more racing up and down the stairs. Spicy food was almost non-existent, and John would receive hurt-puppy looks every time he left the flat.

"I have to buy food, Sherlock," he'd say. "Do you want anything special?"

"…No. Just don't be too long."

Or "I have to go to work, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson is on stand-by if you need anything."

The violin playing didn't take a backseat; Sherlock rested the instrument against his stomach and just plucked chords. Once, John thought that he heard 'Rock-a-by baby', but when he looked up, the music stopped, and Sherlock's eyes were closed.

Mycroft phoned and texted both of them, and all attempts at communication were ignored by both residents of 221B.

At the end of a week, they were summoned to a crime scene. The time had flown faster than usual, without Sherlock's usual complaints of 'Bored!', and without music at unreasonable hours of the morning.

In the cab, they heard news of the royal baby over the radio. John glanced at Sherlock, who remained silent.

"I suppose you're going to delete that from your mind palace," John said. "Not relevant until he takes the throne."

"Probably," Sherlock mumbled. "And we are not likely to live that long."

"Mmm-hmm."

There was more silence. Then…

"The royal family must reproduce. To continue the line, to pass on the legacy—"

"What about the Holmes legacy?" John interrupted. "Look, I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know I wasn't going to give an opinion, but this has to be said. Mycroft can't procreate with anyone, and this – quite frankly – has nothing to do with carrying on any family name. It has _everything_ to do with passing on your intelligence. You're a genius, right? Same as your brother. So what if it's hereditary? You want the world to be populated with smarter people, and they should be on the right side of the law. Not like Moriarty. Thank God he didn't reproduce," he added. "`Least, as far as we know."

"He was a Beta," Sherlock said softly, still gazing out the window.

"So what would the world be like without you to solve the mysteries, the puzzles, that _no one else_ can? Do you want the Moriartys of this world to win? Evil needs good to counteract it, and…" John sighed at his flatmate's continued silence. "Forget it. Genius isn't just hereditary. I'm sure someone like you will come along to take your place, someday. I just hope it isn't too late for London. Or the world."

There was no more speaking, for two reasons. One, the taxi rolled to a stop then, and the police cordon was visible down the road. Two, John received a call on his mobile phone, from the number he'd been ignoring. Rolling his eyes, he answered it while Sherlock paid the fare.

"Please tell me brother that I have lined up an abortionist," Mycroft said. "All he needs to do is say yes, and give a time within the next week for an appointment."

John considered crushing his phone beneath his feet, but that would be counter-productive, even if he would be imagining Mycroft's head in its place.

"Sod off," he said. Then he hung up on The British Government.

"That was Mycroft," Sherlock said.

"Yes," John said, falling into step beside his friend.

"Hmph."

"He's made it clear that you're not up for the job of raising a child."

Sherlock scoffed. "As though Mycroft could do any better. He would be a terrible, neglectful parent. At least I would spend time educating my child. And Gregory would be there, too. I am sure he would make a wonderful father. He is patient, generous, kind, and he has a marvellous sense of humour, when he chooses to employ it."

"When you choose to understand it," John added. Sherlock scowled at him. "And he's handsome. Between the two of you, you'd have beautiful offspring. But, of course… Oh, for the love of…" He answered the call. "What is it?"

"The time is ticking, Dr. Watson. Have you told my brother yet? I would have informed you sooner, only neither of you responded to—"

"Yeah, all right, I'll tell him," John said. He covered the mouthpiece of the mobile, and looked at Sherlock. "Your brother has an abortionist on standby. Whenever you're ready. You just need to give him a time." And he held out the phone.

Sherlock took it at a snail's pace. Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed Lestrade. Hell, everyone was listening, but the inspector's head was down, and his whole body was tense, shoulders hunched. To John's nose, he reeked of gut-wrenching disappointment. Whether or not Sherlock observed this as well, John wasn't sure. But they all heard his reply.

"Bugger off, Mycroft, and stay the fuck out of my business," Sherlock said, enunciating it clearly and loudly. Then he hung up, handed the phone back to John, and strode up to Greg. He kissed the inspector forcefully, then swept over to the corpse, calling for John to come and take notes. Greg looked confused, and as shocked as everyone else at Sherlock's cursing.

"It was the next door neighbour," Sherlock said after two minutes. "The same as the murders in Greenford, Finchley, and Whitechapel, made to look like random killings, but this was the focus all along. Arrest him, and there won't be any more red herring deaths. He would simply slip up, now that the intended victim is deceased. You'll find the murder weapon in the wine cellar, most likely a broken bottle, dark green glass, red wine. Claret? This is fairly fresh, and the garbage isn't collected until Tuesday, so it is probable that the glass is buried beneath other refuse. Try the recycling bin first. People are incredibly stupid when it comes to keeping track of what is and what isn't acceptable for recycling. Broken glass is in the latter category." He stood up carefully, grasping John's arm at the last minute to straighten. "Anderson can have the job of checking. It's far more appropriate for him than anything else he could be doing." He glanced around at the others, and then turned to John. "Our work is done here. This was perhaps a seven, seven-point-five at most. Not a complete waste of my time."

"Right you are, Sherlock," John said, following the mad detective away from the scene. He nearly ran into Sherlock's back when they stopped beside Greg.

"Come over to Baker Street as soon as you're finished here," Sherlock said. "We can begin to make arrangements for moving you in. Discuss baby names, nursery…" He waved his hand vaguely. "Things like that. Sleeping arrangements should be obvious. Are you available?" Dumbly, Greg nodded. "Good. Don't make me regret this. Come along, John."

"Congratulations," John said, patting Greg on the shoulder. "Hey. You're allowed to smile, you know."

And they left him at the crime scene, grinning like an idiot.

THE END

* * *

**I don't even know. Have I written ABO before? Meh. Point is, I have now.**

**I love the abundance of mpreg fics in the 'Sherlock' fandom. How could I not write my own? Tropes are fun.**

**(Fun fact: I wrote 'knot' first, before correcting my mistake. Freudian slip, am I right?)**

**Please review! I've written very little 'Sherlock' fan fiction, and would like to know how I'm doing before I post anymore. Just in case it's no good.**


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